The Protestor's Call

What is my call?
What is it that awakens my bones from their slumber?
It is the whip.
The leather straps like razors that tore His skin.

What burdens my heart?
What great weight of oppression must I drag?
It is the timbers.
The rugged wood cross that He bore on his shoulders.

What brings me to my knees?
What endless toil is suffered, under which one falls?
It is the earth.
The king brought as low as the dirt on which He walks.

What loss is suffered?
What bond so tight as if ripping one's own flesh must be broken?
It is family.
His mother's pain that He now bears but is driven forward by.

What is my humility?
What pride must be shed in order to continue the journey?
It is the fellow-traveler.
The brother which willingly carries the burden for Him.

What is my humanity?
What gift of love will there be to aliven me along the way?
It is her compassion.
The gentle touch of the woman who cleaned Him of disgrace.

What peace is mine?
What realization of the finitude of one's own life?
It is His understanding.
His wisdom to recognize that dust always returns to dust.

What great multitude?
What community of lovers do I suffer with, suffer for?
It is His beloved.
The poor, depraved, outcasts which surrounded His feet.

What final surrender?
What breaking of will must come to sacrifice wholly?
It is his brokenness.
Divinity yet flesh. Immortal yet mortally defeated.

What vulnerability?
What complete lack of security in one's self, in one's power?
It is his nakedness
Stipped bare for all to see, yet dignified in his purity.

What freedom lost?
What captivity yet needed to secure myself in Him?
It is the nails.
Meant to hold Him captive, yet lacking the power.

What brings death?
What will so violently lead me to give even my life?
It is His death.
Alone, naked, violent. Suffered for those that betrayed Him.